


save face

by justlikeswitchblades



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, KNBxNBA, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 03:28:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14155644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeswitchblades/pseuds/justlikeswitchblades
Summary: “Are you that mad,” Tatsuya asks, his lip curling upward at his own recklessness. “About me not joining the CBA?”





	save face

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stephanericher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/gifts).



> i would like to apologize to my beautiful girlfriend, who encouraged me when i said i wanted to write nba fic, because this is still that...though not in the expected way

“Damn it,” Tatsuya looks to Ueda as he curses under his breath. His shoes squeal on the wood as he attempts to drive past the three point line, but his guard is unshakeable; the threat of a foul forces him back. “Get off my dick.”

It wasn’t this bad when the Happinets crossed the half-court line. He sent the ball to Kashima, who, after having trouble with his man, passed it back; Ueda has been dancing with his number since then. It’s a home game for Ryukyu, 52-50 with less than two minutes till half. This pressure is immense despite the roar of the crowd; Tatsuya feels the hair on his arms stand on end. 

That, and his shoulders tense; he’s getting impatient. Saçan is on him, even though he plays C; Tatsuya is trying to take that as a compliment. It’s nice to see Mehmet up close; it’s hard not to feel his absence during games in Detroit. His inches and his wingspan make it hard for him to guard close--he plays loose, even when it’s rough--but Tatsuya can feel him trying to tighten up.

_Fuck it_. Tatsuya doesn’t waste time sparing a glance at the shot clock; he peels away and sprints back to Ueda. “Ball!”

Ueda passes; the ball smacks firmly into his palms. He dribbles around Ueda’s number, to the three-point line; Saçan greets him when he jumps. Tatsuya shoots over Saçan’s shining head. Too high; he can tell. It bounces off the backboard and out, but Hashizume is already in the air; he reaches, and jams it in. Tatsuya clenches his jaw and his fist; he claps Hashizume between his shoulder blades as they jog downcourt. 

***

“Man,” Wei sighs. “It’s annoying enough we have the same mascot. But now you’re really trying to piss me off.” His knee is throbbing from being tripped, but the height from which his eyes have to drop to meet those of the guard that’s been substituted in hurts even worse.

“Easy, Wei,” Tsien laughs, hugging his man underneath the basket, “They’re allowed to have another _liu_ on the court.”

Wei frowns; his eyes descend further to the ‘6’ printed on the guard’s chest. It’s not the worst of his concerns, but it’s something to add to the list. This guy just looks shifty; there’s no need for him to be shuffling around so much when he doesn’t have the ball! Wei isn’t even bothering to guard him that closely! He’s got an ugly face, all pinched up and angry-looking--and he looked like that before Wei ever said anything to him, too.

Wei huffs out a breath.

“For now.”

Wei edges in front of 6, spreading his arms; he might as well try to piss him off as long as he’s looking like this. A pass from a dark-shirted Guangdong guard bounces low, underneath his elbow, into 6’s palms. 6 fakes to his right, but Wei goes left--it’s wide open, after all--and stops 6 again. His crossovers sound impressive, but Wei doesn’t bother watching; he keeps his eyes on 6’s upper body, who then jumps, and releases the ball.

“Oh, not today,” says Wei, and extends his arm, swatting the ball away without either foot leaving the floor; 6 narrows his eyes with such intensity that he forgets about the rebound. Tsien gathers it up, and passes it to Xie. 

_Maybe he chose ‘6’ because he still thinks he can reach six foot?_

Wei arches an eyebrow in wonder at 6, giving him a wide berth as he jogs away.

***

The Happinets and the Kings are tied 55-55 at halftime, but the mood of the locker room doesn't seem to show it. The guys are calm, chatty and casual with each other; Tatsuya had slipped his headphones on first, but they're around his neck now as he talks with two of his teammates about their layup techniques. They'd been 18, fresh out of high school when Tatsuya signed with Akita last summer; he had felt their stares the first time he visited the practice facility. Now, Tatsuya may keep some things to himself, but he doesn't like shyness; he had introduced himself first to help reassure them that they wouldn't wither under his stare.

He had played against a guy like that in high school, one that would apologize for existing if you had spared a glance towards him; and, like high school, some things never change. Even in the noise of the locker room, he can pick the soft, repetitive _click_ of Masako's sword as he pushes the guard up, then down again, with the pad of her thumb.

“Himuro.” 

Tatsuya perks up. She's standing a few feet away from him, a clipboard in her hands, sword tucked under her arm. Her jacket’s been discarded elsewhere; her hair’s tied up.

“Will you play PG?”

For all his cool facade, Tatsuya can't help the occasional knee-jerk reaction. A grimace tugs at his lip.

“Nevermind,” Masako continues, calm, but with a frown in her voice.”

“Sorry, Coach. I'm happy to be a swingman, but, SG to PG? Maybe if we were at practice, but…”

Masako nods, matter-of-fact. “You like scoring too much.”

“There's no such thing as scoring too much, Coach.”

“You're right; let me rephrase,” She takes her sword out from underneath her arm, and jabs it at his chest. “You like _attention_ too much.”

Tatsuya shrugs with a neutral smile.

“If I sit you out in the third quarter, how hard can you go in the fourth?”

“Sit me out for the first seven minutes of the third and the fourth, and I'll play the last halves of both.”

Masako eyes him, firm. “No special treatment.”

“I'm not asking for more time. Just a different arrangement.”

Masako looks at her clipboard again.

“How hard can you go?”

Tatsuya smiles.

“Till it kills me.”

***

Zhou passes the ball to Wei from the midrange; he doesn't even have time to look at the basket before two defenders latch onto him, their arms and hands all up in his face.

“You're kidding me!” Wei groans. “Just because I'm tall--”

He passes the ball back to Zhou, who, with his defender still on Wei, nets an easy three. Guangdong takes their next possession slow, giving Wei plenty of time to get tired of the contrasting thud of the basketball, and the shuffle of 6’s feet. When his teammates finally pass him the ball, Wei lets him get a dribble in. Just one; he crouches down low, stealing the ball before it completes the second bounce, and sprints down the court. He dunks, and swings from the rim; when his feet hit the floor, 6 is barely past the half-court line. He doesn't look any less pissed.

“Where’s your double team now?”

A half-second blips by, and 6 is walking up to the ref, holding his wrist.

“Bullshit!” Wei calls, storming up to them. “I didn't touch him!”

The ref holds Wei away at arm's length, and that's probably wise--Wei is damn curious to find out if this asshole’s expression will change with his hands on his jersey. He ends up awarding 6 a free throw, and Wei stands on the line with his arms crossed. Sportsmanship and rebounds be damned, he knows he didn't touch him. 

6 shoots; the ball rolls around the rim, and drops into empty air.

“He's just jealous I can reach the hoop,” comments Wei, within earshot.

***

“Yo, Himuro. Wanna dunk tonight?” 

Demetrius Young’s voice settles low in Tatsuya’s ear on the perimeter of the timeout huddle, draping his arm over Tatsuya’s shoulders. Tatsuya feels himself straighten, and almost shiver, like a teenager dared to climb out of their window at night by a seductive lover.

“I wanna dunk every night,” responds Tatsuya in English, doing little to curb the mischief in his grin. “Shame I wasn’t born with your height.”

“Maybe I can help you out,” Young arches an eyebrow. “A favor, from one New Yorker to another.”

“Sounds so ominous when you say it like that,” Tatsuya laughs. “Like I'm joining some weird Nets blood pact.”

“Lots of people would love to get in a Knowles-Carter cult, T.”

“Whatever, D,” Tatsuya rolls his eyes. “You gonna help me dunk, or not?”

“Course. Throw it up to you for the alley oop?”

“Hell yeah,” Tatsuya bumps his fist. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

The huddle breaks, and the fourth quarter resumes with seven minutes to go. Akita’s on top with a score of 89 to 82; Tatsuya won’t say he's comfortable with that gap just yet.

But that feeling won't stop him from having some fun.

The Kings are starting to feel desperate; their forward barrels through Tatsuya on his way towards the hoop. Young gives Tatsuya a thumbs-up when he’s back on his feet; Tatsuya nods, and nets the resulting pair of free throws. 

With three minutes remaining, Ryukyu is flagging. Ueda steals from their point guard with ease; Tatsuya follows him down the court. Ueda passes to him outside the three-point line; he glances back, and passes to the Young-shaped player in his periphery--too much of his vertical is rooted in hope to think twice. He sprints inside, and jumps just before he crosses the sideline. The ball is firm and pebbled on his fingertips--the rim is cool and smooth in his grip--the ground roars up into his bones when he lands, furious at him for defying gravity.

Tatsuya has never been able to handle criticism all that well. 

He puffs his chest, and roars right back.

“Another one!” He shouts at Young, holding up a finger as he runs to get back on defense. Okuyama blocks a shot from the opposing center, and Young grabs the rebound. Tatsuya is slower to the hoop this time--he can feel it in his legs now--but he still jumps, and throws it down again.

“DJ Khaled!” Young slaps his hand. “That's how you do it!” Tatsuya is panting, but he nods in agreement.

The game ends 100-87, Akita. There aren't many members of the press waiting for them, save for one or two that want to bother Tatsuya about the lockout. He supplies the routine answer-- _he's with the players, for no matter how long it takes_ \--and heads back to the hotel with the team. The next morning, he joins them on their trip to the airport, but departs at a different terminal, headed the opposite direction.

***

_Fuck, is he lost?_

Wei unlocks his phone, and reopens Whatsapp. ‘ _Almost there!_ ’ reads the text Tatsuya sent fifteen minutes ago, with no further additions. They were supposed to meet at 18:45; their reservation was at 19:00. It’s already 19:10, and Wei is starting to feel the armpits of his sport coat get damp, thanks to the humidity. Of course Tatsuya’s lost--what else would Wei expect?

He shrugs his jacket, hoping for a second of relief, and punches the call button.

Tatsuya says something immediately upon answering, a hint of exasperation in his voice--something about “walking” and “belief” and oh fuck, Wei hasn’t listened to anyone speak Japanese in years. They’ve been texting; Fukui’s been texting him, too--and far too often, from Wei’s point of view. Relying on those texts to retain some level of fluency, though, seems to have been a mistake. He keeps his phone to his ear, and starts down the street. This area isn’t known for its nightlife, but the shops are lighting up, and locals have started to fill in the sidewalks

“Slow down.”

“What? Do you see me?”

“No,” Wei exhales through his teeth. “Talk slow.”

“Oh, sure. Are you feeling okay, Wei?”

“You remember me teaching you some Chinese?”

Wei listens to Tatsuya laugh. “I’d be less lost if I did.”

“No, Hong Kong Chinese is not the same,” Wei shoots back, smiling a little at the dig. “But, right now, me and Japanese are like you and Chinese.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. What street are you at?”

“Uhh...Gough Street? By a bakery.”

“Don’t move,” Wei barks into his phone, walking briskly. He takes a right; Tatsuya is on the other side of the street, looking the other way, his phone to his ear. Wei jogs up to him.

“Yo.”

“Yo,” Tatsuya smiles up at him in that way of his that reveals absolutely nothing. No stress, no relief--it almost pisses Wei off.

“You're late.”

“You know me,” Tatsuya offers in response, mild irritation sneaking into his voice. “You could have offered a ride.”

“ _I_ hailed a cab.”

“Listen, Wei. I rented a car, I figured I should use it.”

“You should have been on time.”

They stare at each other--an impasse. Wei turns on his heel, and starts walking. After a beat, the sound of Tatsuya’s footsteps follow.

“...It’s good to see you.” 

Wei looks back, and Tatsuya’s face is cast in orange and pink, illuminated by the setting sun further away, and a neon sign nearby.

“Yeah,” He nods. “You, too.”

***

Sometimes, when Wei speaks, his forehead wrinkles like a wet towel being wrung out over a bathtub. And even if it’s a product of colonization, Tatsuya finds himself thankful that this restaurant has English menus.

It’s not like he's forgotten too much, but it's not quite the same as high school, either; they text, more often now than they’re in the same timezone, but it’s gotten Tatsuya wondering.

When was the last time they spoke over the phone? 

In person?

Five years?

A layer of aquarium rock guilt settles into the pit of Tatsuya’s stomach.

“Here,” he says, sliding his menu underneath Wei’s. “Order for me.”

Wei looks up. “Really?”

Tatsuya feels the corners of his lips lift. “I don't want to butcher the pronunciation.”

Wei eyes him, wary. “Don’t get mad if you don't like it.”

“I won't,” Tatsuya answers, but Wei continues to look at him in disbelief. He pushes the menu back into Tatsuya's hands.

“Tell me what you want.”

“C’mon,” Tatsuya forces a laugh. “What's so wrong with you ordering for me?’

Wei’s shoulders tense; his eyes flick down to the menu.

“You didn’t listen to me when I talked up the CBA,” He huffs after a moment, his voice quiet, his words, sharp.

“Wei,” Tatsuya responds in a hushed voice, not caring if it sounds like he's chastising Wei. “You know it's not like that. It was never like that.”

Wei levels him with a stare.

“The league doesn't allow opt-out contracts! If I signed and the lockout ended sooner, I'd be stuck there till March!” Wei looks angry; maybe he doesn’t understand, but Tatsuya isn’t sure how to rephrase the statement.

“It's already February,” Wei spits. “There’s no point.”

“That’s not--” Tatsuya touches his forehead, and sighs. “I made a mistake.”

The waiter stops by their table; Wei orders for the both of them. A busser comes by a few minutes later, and sets down two pints of beer. Wei chugs half of his, waits. 

Then, he raises his glass to meet the one in Tatsuya's hand.

***

“You never invited me to play in Xinjiang.”

Wei looks up from his plate. He watches Tatsuya stuff the rest of a crab leg into his mouth, shrugging, nonchalant as he chews. 

“I know you don't make the decision to hire me,” He swallows, gesturing with his chopsticks in hand. “But you never invited me.”

“That's because no one wants to play in Xinjiang,” Wei swallows his bite of roast goose, frowning. “You'd go insane in Urumqi. It’s a terrible city.”

Tatsuya raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

“It has historical significance, and unique traditions,” Wei reasons, feeling somewhat guilty. “But it doesn't feel like China. Not how other cities do. If Shanghai were New York, Urumqi would be...what’s a bad American city?”

Tatsuya snorts. “Depends on who you're asking.”

“The team is good. The team is great,” Wei downs the rest of his second beer. “But the feeling like you're waiting out your contract...no one wants that.”

Tatsuya doesn't quite look at him. He lifts his chin, a movement shaped like a nod.

“I like the crab,” He says after a moment, returning to his dish. “I'm glad you ordered crab.”

***

Tatsuya hasn’t had so much to drink that he doesn’t remember what he’s downed so far--three beers at the restaurant, plus the terrible shot Wei had ordered them. Still, he’s had enough to drink to make him feel comfortably warm, even with the weather feeling like summer. He doesn’t feel like he’s out of control; it doesn't seem like it's affecting his walk. Wei seems fine, too, but he has the height advantage, after all; Tatsuya managed to eke out another half inch before he turned 18, but Wei just kept growing; he's probably seven foot now. 

That's how tall he'd been, right? When they had spent the summer together before Tatsuya’s senior year of college, playing streetball in Shanghai?

Maybe Tatsuya should check Google.

He shifts the bubbly sort of waffle they'd gotten from a street vendor to his left hand, his pace faltering as he draws his phone out of his back pocket. It's already ten. 

Wei’s stride walks him ahead of Tatsuya naturally. He slows, taking a peek at Tatsuya's lockscreen; Tatsuya should just ask. 

He slips his phone back into his pocket.

“Are you that mad,” He asks, lip curling upward, smiling at his own recklessness. “About me not joining the CBA?”

“Mad is...wrong,” Wei answers, “Sad is not right, either.” His forehead wrinkles again; maybe the alcohol is affecting him.

“The CBA is the best, you know? Don't you want to be the best? Don't you want a challenge? To choose Japanese basketball over China...it's too safe. Not like you.”

“I thought I was being sentimental.”

“No difference. You don't do emotions.”

Tatsuya feels himself smile at that. It feels loose, like a coffee mug filled to the brim, in danger of splashing out.

“Right.”

“I wanted,” Wei sighs, and hangs his head. “I wanted to play with you again.”

Tatsuya feels his smile drop.

“Wei...don't be like that! We could look for a street court, or an open gym--we can still get a game in,” He presses on Wei, raising his arms. “I can block your shots any day.”

“So confident, Mister NBA,” Wei grins back, bumping Tatsuya's chest. “I wrecked a guy your height last game.”

“Well, let's see you do it again.”

“You really want to?”

“Why not?”

Tatsuya pulls out his phone again. The GPS lags; his gaze settles on his shoes as he waits for it to load.

They're Italian leather, gifted to him at Fashion Week a year ago. Comfortably broken in, but not showing their age just yet; it’d be a pain if he scuffed them. He'd have to dish out seven, eight-hundred dollars to replace them--not that he can't afford it, but he'd probably have to wait until he was back in New York to do it--and it's not like he brought his whole closet with him. 

“Wei...maybe we shouldn't.”

“No?”

The wheel spins on Tatsuya’s screen.

“No.”

***

It's past midnight when Tatsuya gets back to the hotel; they had gone for another round of drinks, and another late night snack after that, to help compensate for the alcohol they'd been drinking. His head feels heavy; he smiles at himself when he misses the key card slot on the first try.

The hotel is the same as how he left it, save for a bottle of champagne nesting in a bucket of ice atop the desk. There's a note from W-e-i _Wei_ in fine script, thanking Tatsuya for the evening together, telling him that it was good to see him again. Only Tatsuya knows it wasn't a good evening, and he isn't drunk enough to escape the self-loathing that dawns on him with crystalline clarity. 

Damn it. Wei was supposed to end up here at the end of the night, with him--or at least wanted to. The fancy dinner that he was late to and, _fuck_ \--he reaches for the hotel notepad, scribbling himself a reminder to find the rental car tomorrow.

The dinner, the drinks, the lockout argument they'd been avoiding the past few months--that Tatsuya hadn't bothered to think about Wei’s feelings when he was considering his options outside of the NBA.

Should he have? They haven’t dated in years. They were bad at handling the distance, the gap in talent, Wei making a name for himself in China as a pro while Tatsuya waded through four years of college, praying for a draft pick.

They can’t go back to their younger days--Tatsuya knows that, deep down, Wei knows that. It’s hard enough being _friends_ with Wei now, with the twelve-hour time difference, the lack of shared social media. But at least Wei _tried_ \--at least he tried to treat him like a friend, and Tatsuya didn’t even meet that.

He wrests the bottle from the bed of ice, and pops the cork, a trickle of foam running down his hand. 

He takes a swing, his phone in his free hand, wondering if he should unlock it again.

**Author's Note:**

> i tried to find the sweet spot where wei's japanese wasn't 100%, and have it not sound engrish-y at the same time--let me know if i did, or if i didn't, and where i could improve?


End file.
